Eowyn: The Cage - Ch. 03

"That's enough!" she snapped in anger, but her face was flushed. Has it already grown hotter in here? The fire is still but a few struggling flames.

"It's a plain and necessary truth I tell you. Look into my eyes, Éowyn. There are no barriers. Tell me if you think I speak a falsehood."

She looked, compelled despite her misgivings. And waited. After a time, she realized that despite all her resistance, she was convinced that he spoke the truth. And it is hot in here.

She glanced down, noted that she was perspiring, toyed with a button, then stopped.

"Go ahead. I'll turn around."

She glared at the back of his head, but he appeared to be keeping his promise. Cautious, wary of a trick, she slipped both leather and wool from her body until she was left in a long skirt and a cool cotton tunic buttoned to the top. Its collar wasn't flush against her neck, but scalloped downward, and while nothing of any consequence was exposed it was still far from her usual custom to bare any part of her flesh in public. Well, this isn't public. And it's not like he hasn't seen....

She angrily quelled the unwanted and shameful thought. He was speaking again, and she'd missed his first words.

"...until you realize that these urges are the key to your power. Both lust and love. From these men you could extract any promise or incite any deed. You own a means of control of which you cannot even conceive. You need not even satisfy their urges, only hint that you might, and they will be yours until you're ready to discard them." She remembered the trader, and suddenly the look in his eyes seemed all too clear. He did help me out of lust! I was taking advantage of it — and him — without even realizing it.

To her surprise, she felt no shame. Only a secret thrill of pride.

There was a clear sheen of perspiration at her neck, and he wrenched his attention away. Not yet. He glanced at the fire, noting that it was close to burning as strongly as it ever would. Soon he would have to step away or be swept up in enchantment he was about to release. But there was still one more foundational stone to lay.

"Is that what you really want, though? To remain pure? To hold yourself aloof from the passions you stoke? I think you know better, Éowyn. I think you understand what you can gain along the way, if you will only grant yourself permission. You retain all the power, as is ever the case with an incomparably desirable woman, but you can also indulge your own needs...under your control, and at times and places of your choosing. You will continue to retain your dignity and bearing, for what you do in private will remain so, yet you will have so much more of what you want. What you need."

Her breath came faster now. She's almost there. But this is the most difficult point, for I could win her to this argument yet fail to make myself its object. That can't be allowed to happen. And I'm running out of time before I have to leave.

"What would you explore if you could, Éowyn? What desires do you hold secret? What within you burns unsatisfied?"

He waited. She was, to his eye, wreathed with indecision clouded by the pressing insistence of primal urges she'd long repressed. "I...I...."

I'll have to guess. "I deem you wish to take what is yours, as is any warrior's right. To spend your blood in the bedroom with as much passion as you would on the battlefield, if you could. Do I strike near your center, Éowyn?"

This is too much. She slid to the edge of the bed and stood, facing him. "This isn't...it's not proper for us to be discussing these matters." Where is my strength? My fire? There should have been rage in my voice. What's happening to me? I feel so warm....

Small circles of sweat dotted her tunic. It took considerable effort for Gríma to avoid glancing downward, seeking a glimpse of the flesh beneath. And does she also...no, I can't risk it. If she notices, all would be lost. Still, I'm no longer uncertain how this will go. She mustered all the conviction she had left when she unwittingly concurred with my guess. But am I not a master of the art of conviction? She'd like to act exactly as I described, but she's completely innocent regarding how such power might be exercised. She needs a teacher. A guide. And despite her resistance, even she begins to see this. I know that she'll never willingly ask for my help, but it doesn't matter. She will be mine. At last.

He stole yet another glance at the fire. The aromas in the air were already changing. I need to move quickly. It's finally time. I've held back long enough.

"Who would you choose as your first, my Lady? One of the ruggedly handsome Riders? A wild stallion to be broken and tamed?"

Her hands shook. Her lower lip curled inward, pinned there by the gentle bite of her teeth.

Not quite. "A noble of your own realm, then? Someone always at hand, always available for a secret rendezvous behind locked doors?" Her eyes lidded shut, her fists clenched, and her sharp intake of breath brought an end to anything she'd been about to say. Closer. There probably is someone, but she's done nothing about it. If I guess wrong, I'll undo the spell I'm weaving.

"Or...perhaps a noble from another realm? But who could possibly be high enough to be worthy of the White Lady?" Her eyes snapped open to meet his, then immediately darted sideways in a desperate attempt at avoidance. A deep crimson flush quickly colored her ears. Ahhhh....

"Of course! The future Steward of Gondor was here not long ago, wasn't he? You could be Queen in all but name. Boromir is a man of mastery and power. Not one to be tamed, but to tame in his turn. To take what he desires...." He trailed off, for there was no need to continue.

I can't understand how he sees through me so easily, so quickly, and so clearly. But he does. She fought to maintain her wariness and her resistance, yet she was again overcome by uncontrollable lust. This time, though, it had a focus. Boromir. Her dreams of him begged immediate return, promising to be even more vivid than the night before.

Gríma moved across the room to kneel before the fire, stoking the glowing embers with fresh fuel. He seemed oddly blurry and indistinct; forever too close but leagues distant, and she thought she could hear him murmuring something indecipherable. Well, he's no longer standing right in front of me, and I can risk a moment's distraction while his attention's elsewhere, the better to gain control of myself and these omnipresent fantasies. She closed her eyes....

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Boromir's massive hands were surprisingly gentle as they caressed her bare shoulders. The thick cloth of his sleeves abraded her skin as he stroked her, running his palms along her slender neck, across the top of her back, then threading his fingers into her golden tresses. He passed down her arms, pausing to trace her wound with a tender finger, and clasped her hands. Drawing them to the side, then together at her back, he released her and returned his own to the base of her neck. She reached back to hold onto his hips, but recoiled in shock...for she'd touched skin, not cloth. When did he shed his clothing?

Startled, she opened her eyes, and all sensation of contact instantly disappeared. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? To her relief, Wormtongue remained on the other side of the room, staring into the fire. His shape blurred, and though she rubbed her eyes, it didn't help. The heat in the room increased, and the accelerating throb of her blood ratcheted it higher still. Despite the danger, reason seemed a poor substitute for the urgent needs of the moment, and she couldn't prevent herself from reentering her fantasy....

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Hands gently stroked her neck, then slipped to her shoulders, sweeping her long hair to the side. The gentlest touch from his lips...more breath than kiss...traced her spine from its top to its lowest exposed point, just above the seam of her tunic. She leaned back, and as she did so his hands moved boldly forward, pinning her arms as his fingers tested and teased the outer curves of her breasts. She gasped, stiffened with a moment's resistance, and then leaned into his body. His hands accepted the invitation and completed their envelopment, caressing and gripping more firmly, releasing to cup and circle, then returning to squeeze with greater passion. Her nipples hardened and strained for the touch of his fingers, but the rough material of her tunic prevented much direct stimulation. His lips continued to graze the back of her neck, occasionally nibbling the ridge of one flushed ear. Without warning, he took her earlobe between his teeth and ever so gently tugged; this, plus the hot exhalation of his breath in her ear, sent her mind reeling. When her equilibrium finally returned, she found he'd been neither content nor idle: half her buttons were undone, and one hand was sliding along her bare and sweat-slicked skin towards its tingling destination.

"No," came her softest whisper of protest, even as his hand plunged inward to claim its prize. Between two strong fingers he grasped her stiff nipple, and she jumped as if prodded by lightning. She tried to raise a hand to pull his away, but with willful disobedience it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it clasped his in place through her tunic, as he continued to pluck, pull and stimulate her sensitive bud. His other arm was crossing the first, seeking its own fleshy companion. She gasped again, louder this time. And then....

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Jerking herself forward, her hands scrabbling to close her tunic, she shot a panicked look towards the fireplace. Her hands clutched in vain, for her tunic remained closed and Wormtongue was not to be seen. Fighting through a haze of sexual heat, she whipped her head around, searching.

He was standing at the door to his chambers, her weapons and the rest of her clothes gathered in his arms. Or so it seemed to her, though she still perceived him as if through shrouding veils and obscuring clouds, and she was no longer sure of anything. "Lady Éowyn," he announced, "I regret that I must step away for a few moments. I don't think we're done with what you might find a most rewarding conversation. Feel free to make yourself comfortable until my return." He appraised her for a moment through heavily lidded eyes, then turned and walked through the door. She thought she heard the metal-upon-metal clank of a lock being turned.

He wouldn't! Her instinct to rush forward and rage against her unexpected confinement met with a series of forceful arguments against doing so. First, she was still dizzy from the heady luxuries of her fantasy. And the heat. It must also be this impossible heat. How can such a small fire change the temperature so dramatically? Second, raising any sort of din would inevitably bring people to the door...and even if they freed her, how could she explain being in Wormtongue's room, underdressed and flushed with perspiration? Third, he was in possession of the only evidence that might help her gain advantage over him. Fourth, being in his room at all was the exact disobedience the King had expressly forbidden, and if word reached his ears all might be lost. But looming over all was her paralyzing lethargy, beneath which still throbbed an inappropriate and unaccountable yearning....

Rationally, she knew that she was contemplating an impulsive and extremely unwise act in the very heart of her enemy's lair. But the more she tried to reason her way out of the room, the more she realized that he'd just walked out with every advantage she had. Her only choice at this point was to wait, accepting all the danger that accompanied that choice.

In her overheated state, however, mere waiting was slowly becoming impossible. Though it was no longer being stoked, the fire seemed to burn hotter and hotter; her entire body was wet with perspiration. What little she wore felt confining and increasingly uncomfortable. I'm not going to be naked when he gets back. Still, I could make myself a bit cooler, and cover up again when he returns....

Impulsively, she unbuttoned her tunic. Pausing at the same point as her imaginary lover, she considered her options, shrugged, and quickly undid the rest, pulling the halves slightly apart. It wasn't enough to expose her nipples, but the wet valley of her cleavage was revealed. This is insane. But I have to cool myself down somehow. And if I keep sweating like this, my clothing's going to be essentially transparent anyway.

Worse, the sensual haze she'd fallen into hadn't abated despite Wormtongue's exit. If anything, she was hornier than ever. Inevitably, one of her hands crept to her chest, sliding under the tunic. The needs of her flesh overrode all reason, and her slender fingers caressed her soft breast, pulling and tugging at her sensitive nipples. She increased the pressure, trying to mimic dream-Boromir, but there was something unsatisfying and incomplete about self-pleasure. She needed more.

Her eyes closed.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Boromir's hands were upon her for a third time, right where her imagination had left them. In none of her self-explorations had she treated her breasts this roughly, yet she reveled in the raw masculinity of his possession. Occasional fantasies of dominance and control were, due to her inexperience, no more than aimless musings and most often featured her as the one in charge; now, it was if she was receiving a lesson in both. Though from my own mind, which passes strange. Her confusion was soon swept away in a rush of feeling as he synchronized his aggressive manipulation of her nipples, drawing tightly pinched fingers away from her body until she wanted to scream from the painful pleasure.

One breast suddenly felt neglected, and she looked down in time to see the other abandoned in turn. Her tunic slipped from her body and fell to the floor, and in breathless anticipation she watched it fall. He commenced an even more comprehensive exploration of her upper body: over her stomach, up her sides, retaking her breasts from underneath her arms, fevered kisses running up and down her back. Like a cord stretched too far, something within her snapped, and all desire for resistance or even hesitation fled. She'd already abandoned reason in favor of her dangerous flight of fantasy, and now her fantasy-will gave in to her dream-lover's control.

The pressure on her breasts changed, and his chest pressed against her back as he easily lifted her pliant body. The effect was to push her forward, off the bed and onto unsteady feet as his hands continued to roam. She leaned into him, emboldened, idly wondering why she couldn't feel his hardness pressing into her buttocks. Wasn't he naked? Isn't he as aroused as I am?

His hands slid down her trembling stomach and his kisses followed a parallel trail down her spine. But while his lips were forced to arrest their exploration at the upper seam of her skirt, his hands continued, stroking down the crinkled fabric that covered her shaking legs. Her heart raced as she realized what this new frontier portended; no one other than herself had ever touched her below the waist...at least not with sexual intent.

When he arrived at her ankles he did not, as she expected, immediately slide her skirt upwards. Instead, he stroked and massaged her tendons; a touch at first gentle gradually grew firmer as he edged upward to the curve just below her calves. His patience was as admirable as it was frustrating, for despite her lack of experience she already yearned to be caressed in secret places heretofore inviolate. It seemed to take him a lifetime to reach the powerful whipcords of her calf muscles, and she began to shift her weight back and forth, flexing onto one foot and then the other, lest she collapse from weakness.

As his touch finally passed northward of her knee he restricted his caresses to the exterior of her thighs, and though her first instinct was to protectively press her legs together, she now felt them reflexively, if ever so slightly, widening...welcoming a forbidden touch he seemed unwilling to rush into. She was quivering, involuntary gasps escaping her throat, but she fell silent as his fingers suddenly traced up her flanks, tense with anticipation.

Once again he confounded her expectations. Rather than groping for her center, as she expected he would, he pulled his hands away and embraced her from behind. Leaning harder against his masculine solidity, she looked down to see that he was busily undoing the ties of her skirt. With each knot untied, each stay loosened, the last lingering shields of her innocence were stripped away, making whatever was to come later seem strangely inevitable after what was, after all, a fairly minor surrender. In moments it was over, and her skirt flowed down her legs to join her tunic on the floor.

His hands grappled her buttocks, exploring and caressing with the same demanding intensity they'd expended on her breasts. Grasping, lifting, kneading, rolling...and then, as her excitement continued to rise, separating and exploring the seam between her cheeks.

"Ahhh, Bor...ohhhh!" she hissed, forgetting her earlier commitment to silence. A bold finger slid up and down this forbidden path a few times, at each pass exerting a bit more pressure. It felt deliciously wrong, and she couldn't decide whether to accede to the forbidden pleasure or beg him to stop.

There was no time for further contemplation, however, because his chest again pressed flush against her back. For a delicious moment his hands recaptured her sensitive breasts, then with an almost savage tug he pulled her off the floor and onto the bed, tucking her between his outstretched legs. Surprised and off-guard, she neglected to maintain even token modesty, and her legs definitively widened. It was an advantage into which he serried boldly forth, abandoning her breasts to grasp the inside of her upper thighs and pull them farther apart. Resistance was as pointless as it was unwanted; any sense of control or restraint seemed impossible in the face of his passionate onslaught.

As her sex was revealed, the full extent of her arousal became clear. Why didn't I notice this before? I'm drenched! Rivulets of liquid trailed down her thighs, the light golden fuzz around her entrance glistened with dewdrops of moisture, and the intoxicating aroma of her overheated womanhood mingled with the complex bouquet of scents emanating from the fireplace. The knowledge that there was no hiding her pleasure from him, that her body spoke more clearly in her stead than any timorous or uncertain words, excited her beyond reason.

His fingers caressed the burning flesh of inner thighs, coming closer...closer...closer...teasing and promising without fulfillment until she was squirming with impatience. He traced semicircles with one finger, then another, barely touching her skin, drawing tantalizingly close to her swollen sex and then retreating, each delicate arc dancing right to the edge of danger. She wanted to scream in frustration, she wanted him to plunge a finger deep inside her core and release her long-building tension, she wanted to grab his hand and force him...and still he kept teasing. Down and back, up and around, inward and outward, spreading silken trails of her lubrication around her quivering thighs, then painting new patterns over those he'd just finished. On the verge of ecstasy, she submitted to her lust and opened her legs even wider.